Without Injury
by acertainphilosophy
Summary: The struggle between the unrefined genius and the over-mature conscience Because in young Sherlock's mind, the physical pain begins to supplant the other, scarier kinds. (Warning for self-harm, guilt and Mycroft's general behavior)


Sherlock stared straight ahead, making no remarks and especially avoiding voicing the observations he was currently making. Deductions that would, no doubt, get him into another world of trouble. It was really difficult to keep quiet as he let the scene play out, like Mycroft instructed him to.

The infinitely larger boy was pacing around him in slow, deliberate motions, throwing out whatever 'insult' his primitive brain could muster. It didn't help at all that Jeremy Fitz was intimidating to even those in his own grade, and he was two years Sherlock's senior.

"You snotty piss-nose. You think you can do whatever you want because you've been homeschooled and mummy and daddy have protected you? Well you're bloody wrong, _Billy_."

 _Billy_. The dreadful, hateful nickname the teachers had tried on his first days. (He'd reminded one after another that, yes, his full name _was_ William Holmes, but he goes by his middle name, thank you, never make that assumption again, you moronic dolt.)

The whole school, at this point, knew of his reaction to that _particular act_. Against his better judgment, his jaw tightened. Damn, a sign of weakness.

The brute sneered, revealing crooked teeth. Poor family, no dental work, ill-fitting clothes. His breath stank of bologna as he leaned down to Sherlock's height.

He remembered Mycroft's warning. _Don't acknowledge them. Don't talk back to them. They're all rather… Pitiful. Ludicrously dull and equally barbaric_. These words of advice were offered, of course, after he'd received a black eye from Thomas Young. Mycroft was always the one to stitch him up after he inevitably provoked someone into beating him to a pulp.

Hopefully he could outmaneuver Jeremy Fitz in this situation and come out without so many bruises.

"Hey, Billy, what's the matter? Smart mouth doesn't work when the teachers aren't around?"

Sherlock controlled his cringe more effectively this time, but his tormentor was getting impatient regardless.

"You little weirdo shrimp! It's no wonder everybody's creeped out by you, you freak!" Fitz's mouth pulled back in some shape that was neither a sneer nor a grin, and his fat sausage fingers came forward. He shoved Sherlock back by his shoulders.

He let out a slight gasp of air, stepping backward, but remained upright. It wasn't meant to hurt him so much as to get a rise of some sort out of him. Not happening, Fitz.

"Fight back, shrimp!" Shove. "Fight!" Shove. "Freak!" Shove.

Each time Sherlock lost a little more ground, feet sliding back on the wet October grass. Eventually he hit a wall. His heel made first contact with the red brick, then his fingertips. Jeremy took up his entire view with his bulky frame. Sherlock felt smaller than usual.

"Defend your bloody weirdo self!" Shove. This time, Sherlock's entire body was pushed into the wall. Hard. He felt immediately the bruises that would darken and ache for at least a week.

"You freak! Don't come to this bloody school and think you know anything, that you control _anything_. Because you're just a little, creepy, loser. I'll teach you better…" he finished, now practically whispering close to Sherlock's ear. There was no feasible escape.

The first fist came, pounding into his left cheekbone, just a little below the eye, and made his head go crashing into the brick behind. Pain. Incredible pain.

The world had no time to return from white and stars before the second fist came around, smashing into his ear. His head exploded with agony, and he was on the grass before he realized that he'd fallen.

He looked desperately into the rest of the yard, through the thick legs that held him there, but it was empty. Everyone else had gone home, off to their own lives. He'd presumed as much. School had let out half an hour ago and people didn't like to linger here on average.

He had to get up, had to get up, but the world was still spinning and he wasn't sure which direction 'up' was. Too late. One of the meaty legs moved, and a swift kick came to his ribs. At least it was just the ribs.

No, that would be too merciful, wouldn't it? The leg sung back and kicked again, this time directly to his lower abdomen. Bladder, intestines, and the force ricocheted into his stomach and liver. His spine hit the wall again. He realized that he couldn't see. Couldn't think. It was dark.

When he finally was able to get up, Jeremy Fitz was gone. Huh. He must've blacked out for a while, because the school yard was drenched in darkness and low clouds only halfway obscured a crescent moon. Hopefully Mycroft had reassured their parents, and they weren't worried too much. Knowing them, his mother would be asleep for her afternoon 'beauty rest' and his father would still be at work. Mycroft had an easy job.

Sherlock frowned. Which hurt, as it turned out, with his swollen cheek. He ignored the pain, distracted by his own thoughts, because he knew Mycroft would neglect to feed Redbeard. He'd be lonely without Sherlock there. That incentive was enough to propel him, slowly, to his feet, and traverse the seeming eons of territory between his place of abuse and the front gate of the school.

Biking home was another challenge, with damaged ribs and bruised skin aching and demanding attention all the way. The earth had a way of going spinny every once in a while that was also very disconcerting. Concussion? Still, words managed their endless flow through his thoughts in the background.

Mrs. Johnson's house was dark. Vacation. No, honeymoon. She'd remarried, by the look of the window boxes. Wet pavement along the street, must have rained. Windy, too, as his own clothes had been protected in the lee of the building.

His face hurt. He hurt. Ignore it, he had to ignore it.

He pulled the bicycle into the fourth driveway around the third turn. The familiar façade brought some comfort, but that was far outweighed by the relief that came with the shaggy hound that barreled out from around the side.

Sherlock dropped his bike where it was and trotted over to greet his dog. Tied up still by the same old, fraying rope anchored to the porch, Redbeard seemed more than happy to finally have him home, as he bounded redundantly toward him, pulling against the tether and adding a few more frays to it.

His fur was soft but cold and damp. Mycroft, you lackadaisical, insolent… His dearest brother had left the dog out in the rain and without food. Sure, he was Sherlock's responsibility, but Mycroft didn't have to go out of his way to cause injury.

He untied the rope from the clip on Redbeard's leather collar, and, still holding onto the clip, darted away from the settling cold of night and into the house.

Inside, the lights seemed dim, even in comparison to the cloudy twilight outside. The television droned in the next room, blaring some advertisement about skin cream. His mother would be asleep there, unfinished knitting at her chest as she lie sprawled on the couch. He didn't even need to look to confirm that much; it was routine.

There weren't many 'family' dinners anymore, now that his father was away so often and his mother had adopted her cigarette use again. She'd quit for her pregnancies and the younger days of their childhood, but as of late the ashtrays had reappeared and the smell of smoke and nicotine permeated grotesquely into the air. She slept a lot more now, too. He supposed that had something to do with the effects of the pollution in her lungs. He knew with certainty that _he_ would never smoke.

He didn't bother to scavenge for anything to eat, though his lunch had been stolen and he'd not wanted breakfast. He hurt too much now. It was lucky that he hadn't eaten, or he might've thrown up when Fitz kicked him.

He grabbed the large bag of dog food and poured a bowl full, throwing a piece of leftover liver on top. He hated liver.

Redbeard practically dove for the bowl as soon as it hit the floor, but stopped himself to wait patiently for Sherlock's approval before plowing into it. Sherlock smiled at the gesture. At least Redbeard would listen to him.

Satisfied with his work, Sherlock decided to put himself to bed. It'd been a long day.

Upstairs, he found Mycroft. He was lying, legs crossed, on his bed in the room they shared, staring up at the ceiling, his mind fathoms deep in matters that Sherlock was now and always had been uncomprehending. Always the elder brother was just above him, just out of reach. Mycroft did not acknowledge him as he entered and stalked to his bed, a shadow. He hoped that he wouldn't look, that he would just silently accept his presence and leave him in peace.

Mycroft was big enough and socially tactful (manipulative) enough to fend for himself in their brutal school of horrendous 'other children'. This inability to cope was one more inadequacy, in Sherlock's eyes. One more way in which he failed to match up to his brother's standard; he was left the stupid, weak, inexperienced younger brother. A burden, a disappointment.

Sherlock pled with fate that Mycroft wouldn't notice his embarrassing state, and stay locked up in his personal train of endless thought. Though, with Mycroft, it was more of a bullet train or a space shuttle rocket, travelling at unplumbed speeds. Sherlock had crossed the entirety of the room, and still he remained oblivious.

It wasn't really too much to hope that he would leave it at that. After all, Mycroft spent most of his life denying Sherlock's weight in the world.

Sherlock changed into night clothes, brushed his teeth and washed his face, taking his time. Half because he needed to work around the tender bruises, and half because Mycroft would be alerted to suspicious behavior if he rushed noticeably.

His hands were shaking. It hurt. It all hurt so much. The room went spiraling then, without notice, and the sheets tripped him up, and he went down from the edge of his bed to the floor. _Damn_. He'd almost made it.

Mycroft turned over in his bed, so that he was facing toward Sherlock's.

"Beaten again, dear brother?"

"…Maybe."

"Stop being so meagre and tend to yourself, then," he sighed. "Have you even put ice on? Well, go, into the bathroom. I'll get the ice. Mother will worry if she sees you before the swelling is reduced."

He was going through a phase of calling her 'Mother'. Sherlock supposed it had something to do with her smoking.

"You don't have to be so domineering," Sherlock grumbled.

They entered the bathroom, just off the hall outside their bedroom. Their father still wasn't home.

As he was lifted onto the edge of the bathtub and Mycroft turned his back to retrieve the first aid kit, Sherlock realized the size difference that had come between them. Mycroft was on another side of puberty than he, and it showed in their statures. Sherlock was maybe half his brother's weight, and a foot shorter. Mycroft, meanwhile, had become some lanky, gangly bunch of growing limbs. His face had thinned out considerably, revealing a pronounced nose and chin.

He turned back with a rag and antiseptic, bandage on hand.

"We'll put ice on it after, but your face split when he punched you. There's blood."

Sherlock winced when he pushed the rag, hard, onto his cheek. The pain welled up and manifested itself in humiliating tears that bunched in the corners of his eyes. Don't let them spill over, don't-

"Crying again, Sherlock? Ah, what a shame. Can't do a thing for yourself and can't handle the effects of your own inadequacies. You know, you might be just as dull as our parents, or the other children. How contemptible." There was no venom in his soft voice, no disappointment or anger. Just a light, pretend brotherly concern. It was all satire.

This behavior was nothing new, but Sherlock became aware that he was injured more by the words than the wound on his face. It was odd and foreign, but something inside felt smaller now. He felt… shaky.

Foolishly, he voiced this concern to Mycroft. Something flashed across his brother's face, and it was the most emotion Sherlock had seen from his in some time. It was horrifying.

"You think the inner pain is worse? Oh brother, you've many things to learn. So many things."

He applied force to the rag, digging into the wound on his face.

Sherlock cried out in pain, hands leaping to his brother's wrist on a reflex.

"There, can the 'pain on the inside' compete with that? This hurts more, doesn't it?"

Sherlock pulled away, but not before Mycroft had instilled the lesson. He escaped only because he was _allowed_ to. But, he had to agree. The physical pain had distracted him from anything else. He didn't need to feel anything, so long as the pain was there.


End file.
